


sweater zipped up to (his) chin

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: reader is worried about the man who lives in the apartment above theirs...inspired by must've been the wind by alec benjamin
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 149





	sweater zipped up to (his) chin

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii

The first time you hear it is about a week after you’ve moved into your new apartment - it’s somewhere around nine at night and you’re unpacking boxes, lamenting the amount of work that still has to get done before you’ll feel fully settled. You’re just starting to contemplate taking a break, looking longingly at the television when -

You hear the distinct sound of glass shattering in the apartment above you followed by a dull thud and a yelp. Then, a woman screams something (though it’s too muffled for you to make out the words) and more glass shatters. The ceiling shakes as someone storms off - if the layout of their apartment is the same as yours, they’re heading towards the bedroom. You imagine a man slamming the door, leaving behind a woman crying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass and -

You’re on your feet in an instant, not bothering to change out of your house clothes and barely remembering to grab your keys before heading out the door - you take the stairs two at a time and count the doors until you’re facing the entrance to the apartment directly above yours and knocking before a second thought even crosses your mind. You hear movement from within - someone’s soft footsteps tentatively heading in your direction - and you freeze, suddenly realizing that you’ve stormed up here with no plan. You don’t have the full picture of what just happened - you only moved into this building _last week_ for fuck’s sake, you don’t even know who lives in this apartment -

The hinge squeaks as the person cautiously pushes it open and pokes their head out - it’s a man, tall and thin and fluffy haired. You feel anger building in your belly as soon as you see him because _this man_ , no matter how gentle and harmless he may appear, just threw something at his wife or his girlfriend or whoever, right? He _must’ve_ \- that was what you heard, isn’t it? It has to have been -

“Y-yes?” he asks, his voice wet and cracking - it’s then that you notice the redness around his eyes, the turtleneck he’s wearing at home in the middle of summer, the way he’s curling in on himself and practically hiding behind the door. There’s a scratch or a cut or something running up the left side of his face from jawline to cheekbone, and he’s turning that side away from you just slightly as if he’s subconsciously trying to hide it. You furrow your brow, your anger suddenly vanishing as you think over what you actually heard and - 

He starts shifting warily where he stands, eyeing you with growing suspicion - you realize that you still haven’t responded to his question. You take a deep breath to collect yourself and then stutter out, “I, um - I’m (y/n), I just moved into the apartment right below you? I-I heard some noises a few minutes ago? It…it sounded like maybe something fell and…I also heard glass shattering? I guess I was just wondering if, um, if…if everything’s okay?”

He glances back over his shoulder almost automatically, a hand coming up to worry at the neckline of his sweater, pulling it up as high as it’ll go as his jaw tightens and he swallows nervously. All of that only lasts a second before it’s gone, this eerie calm coming over him as he replies, “Oh I didn’t…I didn’t hear anything. It must’ve been the wind or…something like that. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more.”

But he doesn’t look you in the eye as he says it, instead stares down at his feet. He’s wearing mismatched socks - one with bananas and one with little teddy bear faces, smiling and winking and laughing - it makes you forget why you’re here for just a second. It makes you smile too - you glance back up at him and second guess it, thinking maybe you ought to be more serious right now. But you can tell that he’s not gonna tell you anything, at least not tonight. You can tell that he’s not ready. 

Instead you lean in to the smile, pointing to his feet and saying, “I like your socks.”

He looks up at you, a little surprised huff of laugher escaping his lips - just barely audible, even in the quiet of the hallway. “T-thank you,” he says in a soft, gentle voice - it’s still a little hoarse from the tears you’re sure he shed before you knocked on the door, but he sounds so much better like this. Talking about something else, something he obviously likes. 

“My mom always said ‘it’s bad luck to wear matching socks’ - she’s superstitious like that,” he continues, growing less and less subdued with every word, “I’m a man of science, but…it’s just one of those things, you know?”

His face is painted with a light blush and he’s smiling - it’s slight, but still. “Yeah, I get it,” you reply as your own smile widens, “‘Mother knows best,’ right?”

“Mmhm!” he replies, his eyes lighting up as he nods his head, his hair bouncing a little as he does it - you’d think it’d look a little messy on anyone else, but it suits him well.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else, but then alarm suddenly flashes through his expression for a split second and he turns to look back into the apartment. You furrow your brow in confusion, unsure what’s put him back on edge. You strain your ears because you think he must’ve heard something and _there!_ \- it’s faint, but you can hear another person (the woman, you assume) moving around somewhere within. 

He turns back to you, just as wary as he was when he first opened the door, and lowers his voice to say, “I have to go back in. Sorry I couldn’t help you with the noise, but um…thank you for your concern. It was nice meeting you.”

He’s already starting to inch back inside, swallowing nervously as he stares down at the floor. You want to keep talking to him, but you know you can’t - you don’t want to make it worse for him, don’t want to get him _in trouble_. “I’m downstairs if you ever wanna come say hi,” you blurt out before he disappears, wincing a little at the volume of your voice.

His lips twitch upwards just slightly before he vanishes behind the wooden door - you can only hope it means that he understood what you really meant.

… 

You only catch glimpses of him for weeks and weeks after that - he hurries off the work in the morning and back at night, dressed too warmly for the weather and worrying his long fingers over the strap of his leather satchel. Sometimes he disappears for days at a time and it’s a weird feeling because you worry _less_ when he’s gone than when he’s home.

You’ve heard them fight (for lack of a better word) a few times since that first day you heard glass shatter - you hear dull thuds that don’t sound like footsteps, her voice loud as she yells, though you can never make out the words. You feel like you should be doing something about it, doing something to help - but you don’t know anything for sure. 

You hear the sounds and imagine her throwing things at him. You remember the scratch on his face and his turtleneck sweater and imagine her wrapping long nailed fingers around his neck, squeezing squeezing squeezing while he holds still, whatever feelings he still has for her rendering him completely unable to fight back -

All of that is just speculation. You don’t know either of their names, you don’t even know what the woman looks like. You’ve talked to the man _once._ You could call the cops, but what good would that do? If he’s not ready to leave her, he won’t tell them anything and then nothing will come of it. He’ll still be there with her in that apartment, except she’ll be angry and -

You hear a _crash!_ through the ceiling and you wince, lying down on your bedroom floor because you can’t stomach the comfort of your bed while god knows what is going on upstairs - and maybe it’s weird that you’re so concerned about a stranger, but what if he doesn’t have anyone else who cares? What if she’s managed to isolate him that much? 

You want him to know that _you_ care.

It dawns on you the next morning when you see him walk out of the building and towards the metro stop, presumably headed to work - he leaves a little earlier than you, which gives you a window of opportunity. You don’t want to overwhelm him (and you’re not sure how the woman is about him interacting with people outside of work) so you spend the whole day coming up with something that won’t be obvious - you can only hope that he notices.

You pick up a set of bluetooth speakers on your way home from work, then spend hours and hours and hours making a playlist. (You let out a tentative sigh of relief when it’s mercifully quiet upstairs)

You press them to the door five minutes before he’s set to walk by in the morning, cranking up the volume as high as it’ll go, not caring that you’ll probably get complaints from the neighbors -

_If there is a load you have to bear that you can’t carry I’m right up the road, I’ll share your load if you just call me_

\- You’ve memorized the sound of his footsteps from hearing them pass by above you so often and you know immediately who it is when he starts to make his way down the hallway. You can’t help but watch through the peephole, the speakers digging into your belly as you lean against the door. 

He falters in his stride in front of your apartment, turning to look at the noise. He bites his lip and furrows his brow, glancing towards the peephole as if he knows you’re watching. His lips twitch up into a half smile before he moves on, his long legs quickly carrying him out of range as he disappears out the door. You click the speakers off as soon as you’re sure he’s gone, but keep staring out into the hallway until your alarm goes off, letting you know it’s almost time to leave for work. 

…

You do it the next day and the next and the next. You keep it up even after your next door neighbor starts glaring at you, relishing in the small smiles that pull at the man’s lips when he hears the music in the morning and the way he sometimes takes a moment to mouth along with the words. 

Then comes the day that the super shows up at your door and tells you to stop - you agree and then sulk back inside, wracking your mind for something else you might be able to do to help, even if all that means is getting him to smile on the way to work.

You still don’t have a solution by the time morning rolls around, so you dejectedly slink up to the door without your speakers in hand. You’re halfway to deciding _fuck it, I’m playing music anyway_ when the man walks up to your door, squinting and turning his head from side to side as if he’s not sure if his ears are working right. His face is warped through the peephole, but he’s still so adorable when he sticks his tongue out as he’s thinking - even barely knowing him, you can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to hurt this man.

You jump at the sudden sound of knuckles against wood - it takes you a moment to realize he’s just knocked on the door and is tilting his head to the side a little as he waits for your response. You scramble to open it, clumsily undoing the lock and pulling it open as soon as the latch comes undone. 

He’s just as surprised as you are, his eyes widening as if he didn’t actually expect you to answer. You both just stare at each other for a second, faced with the awkward reality of trying to talk to a stranger-who-doesn’t-quite-feel-like-a-stranger. He collects himself first, his voice jumping up an octave or two as he says, “H-hello!”

“H-Hi!” you stutter back, “Um -”

“I’m Spencer,” he interrupts, giving you a little wave and then playing with his tie just to have something to do with his hands, “I realized I didn’t tell you my name before, so…yeah. That’s my name.”

“Oh!” you reply, rocking on your heels a bit “I’m (y/n). You know, your downstairs neighbor.”

He chuckles and lets the conversation lapse into silence for a second before continuing, blushing and letting his gaze fall to the floor, “You, um…I-I liked your music.”

And you smile because that was the point. “I’m glad,” you say, smiling even wider when he looks back up at you, “The super chewed me out though, so I can’t play music ‘so early’ anymore. Apparently I was annoying the Thompsons next door.”

Spencer playfully rolls his eyes, laughing for a second before seriousness overtakes him - he worries at his lip and considers his words, finally settling on, “Thank you,” in a voice so soft you almost think you imagined it.

You don’t quite know how to respond to that so you just smile and continue with a cheery, “Well, you’re welcome to come over anytime if you wanna listen to music with me and bother the Thompsons,” your eyes hopefully conveying the actual offer hidden beneath.

He looks away and swallows, his eyes tracing over the hallway walls as he mulls it over. “I…I’ll think about it,” he says. His eyes go out of focus for a second before he shakes his head - to try and clear it, you guess. He turns back to you with a smile that’s somehow both tense and genuine at the same time, mumbling, “It was nice talking to you, (y/n). Thanks again for the music,” before waving a second time and then continuing on his way.

… 

A week and a half later he shows up at your door, glancing nervously around as he waits in the hall as if he’s afraid of getting caught. You usher him inside and he immediately lets out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the door and staring up at the ceiling - for a second you wonder if he’s imagining all the things he knows you heard.

“Is everything alright?” you can’t help but ask, too startled by his sudden appearance to hold it in 

He closes his eyes for a moment, his nervous swallow obvious with his head tilted back like it is, before pushing himself back upright and nodding, only half-meeting your eye as he replies, “Yeah, yeah everything’s fine. It’s just…,” he swallows again, shaking his head in what you’re sure in a subconscious gesture as he tries to collect his thoughts, “I haven’t been…going out much lately, um - you know, outside of work.”

You don’t mention the fact that you live in the same building and you’re not sure that this counts as ‘going out’ - he already knows that and there’s no point in reminding him. Instead, you tilt your head at him, letting him breathe for a minute before asking, “Coffee?” 

“Please,” he replies, obviously grateful for the change of topic. You lead him toward the kitchen and put on the coffee, drumming your fingers on the countertop before turning back around as you try to think of something to say. He beats you to it once again, his soft voice echoing around the tiny kitchen as he speaks, “I like your apartment. I mean, the layout is identical to mine but…I like how you decorated it. It suits you.”

“Thank you,” you blush, suddenly wishing you knew what the inside of his apartment looks like so you could comment on it - you wonder if it suits him (or if it doesn’t. If it only suits _her_ )

“I, um…,” he starts, furrowing his brow and glancing away, “I’m sorry about all the noise, I…” and he trails off, looking down at the tiled floor as if it’ll tell him what to say.

It’s painful to hear those words when you know what he really means - he’s apologizing for something that’s not his fault and you wonder if he does that often (you know he most likely does). “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you reply, unsure of whether or not it was the right thing to say.

The residual tension melts out of him and you know it was. He leans against the counter next to you as you fiddle with the coffee machine (more out of force of habit than thinking it’ll actually achieve anything). You reach into the cupboard behind him to retrieve the sugar and he flinches just slightly, sucking in a sharp breath and shrinking back before he can stop himself. He grimaces at his own reaction, but doesn’t bother coming up with an excuse. 

You don’t say anything about it, just pour him a mug of coffee and hold it in front of him until he notices and wraps his hands around it, pulling it closer and staring down into the bitter liquid, watching it slosh against the sides and he gives the mug gentle swirls. You turn away for a second to get the milk out of the fridge and when you come back, he’s pouring heaps of sugar into his mug - you’re almost certain he’s filling it past its saturation point, that the coffee would be _crunchy_ if you dared take a sip.

He looks up at you mid-pour and blushes, carefully placing the sugar back down on the counter as if you won’t be able to see him if he moves slowly enough, a funny little embarrassed expression pulling at his lips. You raise your eyebrows at him, glancing between him and the mug and biting back a grin - he sheepishly shifts his weight from foot to foot, mumbling, “I, uhh…I like it sweet?”

And when you just raise your eyebrows even more, smiling wider and wider by the second, he lifts his mug and takes a sip, holding eye contact the entire time. And then you hear the _crunch!_ of sugar crystals and you burst out laughing, doubling over and holding your belly as Spencer chews his coffee, chuckling around the drink still left in his mouth. You’re just starting to get a hold of yourself again when Spencer slides the sugar in your direction with a grin, watching expectantly for your reaction - you deliver, your laughter returning even stronger than before. He joins you, holding onto the counter as joy bubbles up from his belly and through his throat.

You drink coffee together at the kitchen counter, chatting and smiling and laughing - it’s not perfect, but it seems like it did him some good. He ends up lasting just over an hour before his anxiety spikes and he can barely keep his eyes off the door, looking away only to check and recheck his phone again and again and again - he hasn’t gotten a text this whole time, but you can imagine what he’s waiting for. If you had to guess, you’d say she’s out with friends and he took the opportunity to sneak down. You know it won’t be good if she finds out.

“You can go if you need to,” you tell him - of course you don’t _want_ him to go back to her, but you also don’t think trying to pressure him into leaving will help.

He nods right away, the motion small and quick. “Thanks,” he whispers, already heading for the door. You follow him at a bit of a distance, not wanting to crowd him when he’s like this. Just before leaving he turns back, focuses his gaze on your chin as he corrects, “for the…for the coffee.”

And then he walks out the door, taking the steps two at a time - you can hear him hurrying over to his apartment and fumbling with the lock, muttering “come on, come on, come on,” as his shaky hands miss the keyhole. He finally makes it inside and his footsteps echo above you - you stare at the ceiling and listen to him circle around the living room for a few minutes before you can’t take it anymore. You dig your bluetooth speaker out of the closet and crank it all the way up, pointing it at the ceiling and singing along at the top of your lungs. 

His footsteps stutter to a halt and soon as the first few chords ring out. You let the music play for hours - maybe it’s just your imagination, but you’re pretty sure you can hear him singing along every now and then. His voice is muffled and off key, but you’ve never heard anything more perfectly imperfect. 

The neighbors can deal with the noise.

…

Spencer starts coming by every other week or so - he never quite manages to shake the nervousness or the almost obsessive phone checking, but then again you weren’t really expecting him to. He does, however, start staying for longer and longer periods of time (though he sometimes panics and rushes back home regardless of whether he’s gotten a text or not). He memorizes your number, but refuses to input it into his phone - he doesn’t give a reason why, but you imagine it’s because she has access to it and he’s afraid of her finding out that…that he’s made a new friend, you guess. 

He comes knocking on your door pretty late at night one time, the _rap rap rap_ of his knuckles harsh and frantic. You were asleep, but now you’re definitely not - you leap out of bed and practically run for the door, nearly knocking a few things over in your haste. He pushes past you as soon as you get it open, waving his hands around and hissing, “Close it close it close it!”

His tone is so urgent that you don’t even stop to ask what’s going on, you just shut the door and lock it as fast as you can, painfully aware of the man pacing back and forth behind you. You turn back around to face him and you don’t know what to do. “Spencer?” you ask, unsure of what else to say - why ask him ‘are you alright?’ when he clearly isn’t? Why ask him ‘what happened?’ when you know he won’t tell you.

He stops pacing and just stands there staring at the wall - the pacing was dizzying but somehow this is worse. At least he was doing _something_ before. 

“Spencer?” you repeat, inching closer to him and keeping your movements slow and controlled, “Do you…do you wanna talk about it?”

It takes him a second, but then he starts to shake his head, whispering out, “…No,” between choked breaths - his eyes look a little glazed over and he’s still not looking at you, but at least he’s responding somewhat. You manage to get him over to the couch and sit him down, leaving only briefly to fetch a glass of water, placing it down on the coffee table after he fails to reach out for it when you offer it to him. 

You put on a movie just so that it’s not so quiet - Spencer turns his head toward the television after a few minutes, watching the actors move across the screen just to have something to do. He picks up the glass of water and worries a finger over the rim, taking tiny sips and letting out a shaky sigh every so often. You tell yourself you’re watching the screen, but really you’re watching him - you’re watching for any indication that he’s ready to talk, that he’s finally ready to let go.

It never comes.

You wake up on the couch the next morning with a blanket tucked around your shoulders and realize you must’ve nodded off at some point. Spencer is gone, but he left a note - it reads: 

_Thanks for the movie. I appreciate it._

_\- Spencer_

… 

It’s not summer anymore, but it’s definitely not cold enough to be wearing such a thick scarf indoors - you can see sweat starting to bead on Spencer’s brow and you know he’s uncomfortably warm. You turn on the air conditioning instead of suggesting that he take it off, and he gives you this _look_ in return - it’s as if he was expecting you to hound him about it even though you’ve never _once_ done so in the months that you’ve been doing this.

He turns back to the travel chess set he brought with him and runs a finger over his queen, tipping it gently back and forth as you reseat yourself across from him. You don’t ask him about it - instead, you reach over and move one of your rooks, capturing his remaining knight in the process. He freezes for a second, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he blinks down at the board. And then he huffs playfully, raising a knuckle to his lips as he considers his next move. 

You play a few more rounds like that (even managing to beat him a time or two). Spencer starts packing up to go, rolling each chess piece in between his thumb and forefinger before delicately placing it back in the case. He pauses for a second, staring down at the same queen from before and worrying at his bottom lip. “My friend JJ…,” he starts before trailing off. 

He puts the piece away and then clears his throat and tries again, this time staring at the wall behind you, his voice wavering a little, “The other day I wore this scarf to work. I made a comment about being hot without…without even thinking about it, and my friend JJ…she said, ‘If you’re so hot, then why don’t you take your scarf off?’ I laughed it off and changed the subject, but the way she looked at me? I think…I think she knew. I think they _all_ do and…and I don’t know how to feel about that because -”

And then he cuts himself off, reeling from the force of his own words and rocking on his heels as you try to think of a response. But you have less than two seconds before he’s grabbing his things and rushing out the door, his scarf trailing behind him as he walks. And maybe that could’ve gone better, but all you can think about is how _close_ that was to an admission, how different it was from that first conversation all those months ago.

…

You’re sitting on the couch together one night, reading books by lamplight and sipping on cloyingly sweet decaf coffee, when it finally happens. Spencer closes his book and worries his fingers over the cover for a second - you pretend not to notice because you can tell he’s still mustering up the courage to get the words out and you don’t want to scare him away. 

It’s then, on the couch in your apartment at nearly nine at night, that he takes a deep breath and begins to talk. 


End file.
